One Hundred Years
by Angelus1
Summary: A slight alteration of Spike and Buffy's encounter at the end of Showtime.


Spoilers: "Touched". 

Disclaimer: Yeah, right, sure I own 'em. In my dreams. Buffy, Spike, and any other characters mentioned here are the property of Joss Whedon, UPN, and Mutant Enemy Inc. No copyright infringement is intended.

* * *

She's cold. And tired, and hungry, and wishing she would just stop crying. But once the tears started half an hour ago, she just hasn't been able to make them stop. Maybe it's pent-up tears from years of not crying, maybe it's because she's finally given up; but she just can't stop. Although, she amends, she does have perfectly good reason to cry. She's just been kicked out of her own house by her own sister and her own friends; left with nothing.

For the first time she became the only Slayer in history with a support network, she is utterly and completely alone.

* * *

To the world, it probably appears as if Spike is either dead or sleeping. He lays on his back in the downstairs bed, hands folded across his chest, pale marble skin appearing almost like wax in the candlelight. He doesn't move, he doesn't breathe, yet Buffy knows he's awake and well. Not alive because, well...vampire. Awake is the best he can do.

Without a word, she moves to sit beside his prone form. The crypt basement is silent save for her breathing and the crackle of the candles surrounding them. They should be talking, she knows in the back of her mind. There are a million things that should be said, need to be said. But this is her, and this is Spike, and somehow the silence has always been both their enemy and their friend at the same time, conveying more than words ever could.

Yet still, she speaks.

"I need a place to stay tonight," she states, knowing what the answer will be, knowing he won't ask why until he knows she's ready to tell him.

"Stay here," he offers predictably. Permission granted, Buffy pulls off her jacket and shoes and curls up next to him, wondering when she suddenly started being so..._polite_ towards him. No, not polite - _distant_. Aloof. One of his hands begins to gently stroke the skin at the small of her back under her shirt, and she smiles. This is right, this is safe. Why did she ever leave?

"Say it," she pleads, wanting to hear the three little words he used to dole out so freely. But instead of saying them, he sits up abruptly, leaving her head to smack back down onto the bed. She sits and watches as he takes a seat on the opposite side of the bed, bare back to her. He reaches for the pack of cigarettes on the bedside table and cups his hand over the flame as he lights one.

"Don't need to say 'em," he mumbles after taking a long drag. "You know what they are, what they mean."

"Maybe I don't."

"Buffy..."

"You're all I have left now, Spike," she admits with a tiny sniffle.

"And that's why you want the words. The only reason."

"I need to hear them."

"No." The word hits her like a slap in the face. When has Spike ever refused to voice his affections?

"Spike..." she wheedles, one hand reaching out to trace the graceful line of his spinal cord. He flinches, as if burned, and jumps from the bed, begins pacing around the room.

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" he rants. "If they just came tumblin' out every time you wanted to hear them? I may be dead, but I still have feelings. I have a heart. It doesn't beat, but I still gave it to you. And what did you do? Stomped on it and tossed it back. Over and over again. And now I should just shove it back at you again because you've all of the sudden decided you want it?"

"I've always wanted it," she admits. That shuts him up quite nicely. "I just couldn't make myself take it. And I'm sorry, so sorry, that it's taken me this long, but I will gladly accept it, if the offer still stands. And in return...I'm ready to give you mine."

The cigarette falls from his fingers as his eyes search her face, and a booted toe absently extinguishes it, smearing the ashes in a dark trail across the stone floor. It's all he can do not to lunge at her and tackle her to the bed; this is exactly what he's waited so long to hear. But after everything that's happened between them, he doesn't know quite what it means any more; whether he even wants to hear it. He starts pacing again, double time.

"Spike?" she murmurs, but he's ignoring her, his feet shuffling noisily back and forth from one side of the room to the other. He seems distracted, thinking, turning things over and over in his mind as he's always been so apt to do.

"It's been so long," he finally chokes out. "Don't know if the words, the feelings, are even there anymore." He stands tall, throws back his shoulders and holds his head high, but she can see right through him.

He's scared. And probably scared of _being_ scared. But this isn't the normal, run-for-your-life type of fear; this is the fear of finally giving himself to her completely, only to have her crush him. She smiles gently, knowing it won't happen. Not this time; this time, finally, she's ready. To welcome him into her heart with arms wide open.

"Come here," she says. But he keeps pacing, so she rises, stands directly in his path, and catches his hands in hers. "Spike, look at me," she commands.

When his eyes meet hers, they're full of the apprehension and vulnerability she suspected. To calm him, she places a hand on either side of his face and draws it to hers for a gentle kiss, unlike any they've ever shared before.

"They're still there," she assures him. "And I want to hear them more than anything right now. But I can wait. Until you're sure you're ready. But until then...I love you, Spike." But he turns his face from her.

"Don't," he pleads. But she grabs his chin, determined to make him believe this, once and for all.

"In all the years I've known you...God, Spike, we've been through so much together. Good times...and bad times. And when things got bad, I hurt you, I said things I didn't mean...but I never lied to you. Ever. And I'm not lying now. Look into my eyes, Spike. You know me inside and out - you know what I'm saying is real."

So his eyes bore into hers, and when he finally pauses to look - to _really_ look - he's shocked at what he sees.

He sees love.

He's not quite sure what to do. Should he say the words back, or throw her down to the bed and shag her senseless? He settles for drawing her to him and embracing her, the tenderest of hugs. He buries his face in her neck and he could care less that he's clinging to her like a small child. This is _his_ Slayer, he thinks, squeezing his arms even tighter around her waist. His and only his. Finally. And he'll be damned if he's ever going to let her go.

"Don't go," he mumbles. "Stay with me, here, tonight." She gives a short, cold bark of dry laughter.

"It's not like I have anywhere to go," she murmurs darkly. Spike pulls back to look at her. What could possibly have reduced the toughest girl he'd ever known to this? He leads her to the bed and crawls in behind her, slinging a blanket over them and pulling her snugly against him. He turns her around so that she's facing him.

"Tell me what happened, luv," he wheedles. She closes her eyes, relaxing into his touch.

"They were right to do it," she insists, sounding more like she's trying to convince herself of the fact than him.

"What?" he prods gently, dropping butterfly kisses on her eyelids. She takes a deep breath before starting.

"They asked me to leave," she admits. "For the better of the group."

"For the _better_?" he exclaims. Seeing her already teary eyes, he tries to calm himself down. "How the bloody hell do they think that getting rid of their leader is for the better of the group?"

"I'm not the leader anymore. Faith is."

"Oh, yeah, that's a great plan," Spike scoffs. "Let's put a wanted, psychopathic felon in charge."

"Don't," she pleads softly. "They were right."

"They damn well were not right!"

"They _were_. Please, Spike - just let it go." He lays silent, just holding her. He knows he has to say something, but for now he'll just leave it be. It's not over, though. He knows that group every bit as well as she does, and the best thing they can do is let her do the job she was chosen to do. They may not like it, it might not be fun, but in the end they all want the same thing: to stay alive. And she will do everything in her power to make that happen.

And she will succeed. He doesn't know how he knows it, but he knows. She will lead them out of this bleakness with head held high. And, if he has anything to say about it, with him by her side.

Tomorrow, maybe, he'll go over to the house and give them a piece of his mind. He'll scope out the vineyard again, try to come up with a new game plan. Tomorrow. For now, he's content just to lay here and listen to her breathing, knowing that, finally, her heart is where it belongs: in his hands. And he's not letting go for anything.

"If you ever fall, I'll be there to catch you." He whispers the promise in her ear. And the tears begin to stream down her cheeks once more, only this time, she's not willing herself to stop.

He's been being careful all night; since the second she waltzed in here, he's been holding back. But with her admission, his confidence has returned. He rolls her over to face him and promptly takes her face in his hands as he kisses her, swiftly and surely. She moans into the kiss, her tiny, hot tongue twining with his cool one. Her touch is dizzying, her kiss passionate, but he pulls back. Not tonight. There'll be plenty of time for that in the future. Right now, he just wants to keep holding her.

"I love you," he growls, low in his throat. "In over a hundred years, I've never loved anything more." Buffy presses a kiss to his collarbone and shifts so that the entire length of her body lays against his, letting him borrow her heat.

"I love you too, Spike," she returns.


End file.
